


Logic And Lore

by whovianmuse



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), wholock - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:02:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianmuse/pseuds/whovianmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Prequel:</b> <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/500114">Mad And Magnificent</a></p><p>It’s been three years since Sherlock Holmes first met Amelia Pond on New Year’s Eve, nine months since the tragic death of Amelia's husband, Rory Williams, and six months since the alleged suicide of London’s only consulting detective. Desperate for a distraction from his all-consuming guilt, depression, and boredom, Sherlock researches Amelia’s history, and becomes obsessed with the mystery surrounding her fluctuating age and random disappearances throughout her timeline, supposedly travelling with a man called the Doctor. One evening, Amelia receives a text message from a dead man with the signature SH, and finds herself wandering to the very same place where she had first met him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Logic And Lore

            Sherlock Holmes stands in the very same place he’d stood nearly three years ago. It's a decent little hideaway, a quasi-claustrophobic alley cradled in between two brick buildings and shrouded from a crowded plaza by shrubbery and a rusting, wrought-iron gate. The last time he stood here, it was New Year's Eve, and he had been all on his own, staring hatefully into the sea of tourists queuing up around the clock tower in the middle of the plaza. Sherlock slides his hands into the inside pockets of his black pea coat and withdraws a lighter he'd stolen from John years back.

            He slips a cigarette in between his lips and shifts into a more comfortable position, reclining against the brick-embellished spine of the little café and trying to look as indifferent as he can possibly manage, a perfect imitation of the way he'd looked the night he first met Amelia Pond. She was mad and magnificent, a perfect stranger who had asked him for his very last cigarette, and had become, much to his surprise, quite lovely company in the twenty-seven minutes that they had known one another. The two of them had stood there, hidden away from the rest of the world and cloaked in cigarette smoke, content in each other’s silence, broken only by occasional musings.

            At midnight, without the slightest hint or warning, Amelia had kissed him, leaving Sherlock shocked and bemused, the mere memory of her burning into his mind, burrowing into the secret crevices of his mind palace and haunting him, despite the fact that he’d tried his damnedest to forget her. The years ticked past and Sherlock lost himself in other distractions, solved case after riveting case, found a family of truly wonderful friends in Dr. John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. But that was ages ago, back when his life was very nearly perfect. Back when his life made sense.

            It’s been six months since Sherlock had enlisted the help of Molly Hooper to fake his suicide. Six months since he had last spoken to John. Six months since the local newspapers had fabricated lies about his intelligence, poisoning the minds of all those who had trusted and believed in him with doubt and disapproval. Six months, twelve days, and eleven hours since he had started living with Molly in the spare bedroom of her flat, driving her absolutely mad.

            Sherlock lives as a ghost amongst the unobservant residents of London, haunting cafés and bookshops and unoccupied street corners with his collar turned up against the wind. Though he’ll never admit to it, he misses John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson terribly (and possibly even Sergeant Donovan, at times…but not Anderson) and will occasionally check in on them, disguised as a novice postman or takeout delivery employee, to make certain that they’re still safe. The moment he thought that his life couldn’t possibly become any more complicated than it already was, Sherlock discovered that Amelia Pond had moved to London.

            One morning, three months into his afterlife, Sherlock had spotted Amelia locking up and leaving her flat, coffee in one hand, purse and keys in the other. She drove off in a little red car, and didn’t even notice that Sherlock had been standing only a few paces away. Desperate for a distraction from his all-consuming guilt, depression, and boredom, Sherlock commandeered a laptop and began researching Amelia’s history. He scrolled article after article, perused professional and candid photographs, promotional posters, and interviews with local television stations, evening talk shows, and a number of modeling agencies, none of which provided him with anything of immediate value or interest:

            Amelia Jessica Pond. Approximately twenty years old the night Sherlock had met her on New Year’s Eve, according to her birthdate. Married at twenty-one to Rory Williams, Leadworth Nurse. Disappeared for an extended honeymoon on the night of her wedding, claiming to have been travelling with a man who called himself “the Doctor.” Lived in Leadworth for several years, intermittently travelling with her husband and their scholarly tour guide. Sources indicate that she and her husband had last visited Manhattan, New York in America.

            Returned to Leadworth for three months after the death of her husband. Tragic accident, according to Amelia’s brief disclosure and the opinion of the local news columns. Rory Williams, having achieved the status of a medical physician, had been travelling abroad for a seminar, when his plane had unexpectedly crashed into the ocean. Widowed Pond relocated to London shortly thereafter to continue her flourishing career as a model, and had been living in a modest flat in downtown London for nearly six months.

            While it had sounded like a relatively normal life, there was one little detail that had relentlessly clawed at Sherlock’s curiosity: Rory and Amelia’s sudden, seemingly random disappearances with this mysterious “Doctor”. Odd, Sherlock had mused, considering the fact that both Amelia and Rory lacked medical histories of any notable diseases or debilitating ailments that would require the accompaniment of a professional physician. Therefore, it could only be assumed that this man either acted as their tour guide, or was simply a familial nuisance who wouldn't leave the married couple alone.

            However, there _was_ the much more disturbing possibility that this man had, at one point in time, entered into a consensual arrangement with Mr. and Mrs. Williams that had resulted in sessions of sexual congress. Perhaps, if that _had_ been the case, or if the Doctor had simply been a close friend (which, admittedly, would do very little to explain why the Doctor had constantly travelled with a married couple) the Doctor had acquired a romantic, emotional attachment to Amelia, had consequently grown jealous of Rory, and had arranged the engine malfunction of the aeroplane that had lead to Rory’s demise, assuming that, with her husband out of the way, the Doctor could have Amelia all to himself.

            As expected, Sherlock’s mind had gone into overdrive with countless theories and possibilities. Regardless of the truth, it sounded like a promising cure for Sherlock’s endless rage and boredom, with a potentially macabre, wonderfully intricate twist. Delighted to have a new case to distract him, Sherlock took to practically stalking Amelia Pond. Well…it wasn’t _actually_ stalking, Sherlock had reasoned, not in the literal sense of the word.

            Amelia Pond was simply the strongest link that Sherlock had to uncovering the truth about the Doctor’s identity and current whereabouts, which could have, in turn, lead to unmasking him as a cold-blooded murderer with terroristic tendencies…and wasn’t that exhilarating? It was not, obviously, due to the fact that Sherlock couldn’t keep the memory of New Year’s Eve from constantly playing, over and over again, inside his mind. That would imply that Sherlock had enjoyed Amelia’s company…that he hadn’t long ago deleted the sensory-infused memory of her kiss…that was a thoroughly illogical, preposterous notion.

            One evening, Sherlock had followed Amelia home from work, watched her park outside of a nearby café, and embrace a tall, voluptuous, older woman with curly blonde hair, whom Amelia had called “River.” Sherlock had assumed, of course, that River was a distant relative who hadn’t been able to make it to Rory Williams’ funeral…though it seemed unlikely, considering River’s air of lighthearted joy, the brilliant smile stamped across her lips at the sight of Amelia. The two of them sat opposite one another at a little wooden table at the back of the café, and the woman named River had pulled out a dark blue diary with baroque designs and indentations adorning the cover.

            “Let’s see, now,” she’d said. “Where are we at in your timeline, mum?”

            Amelia forced smile, absentmindedly stirring her tea.

            “I’ve just turned thirty-one, and…Mels, your father, he’s…” Amelia sighed, stumbling over her words and cradling her forehead in the palm of her hand.

            “Rory is dead. Has been for six and a half months now, our time. Two thousand years ago, his time. He was taken by the Angels when we went to Manhattan. Displaced in time. I never found him, never got the chance to say goodbye. The Doctor, he…he still visits…whenever I’ll allow him to.”

            Amelia smiled sadly, her features contorting into a combination of anger and sorrow. In an instant, River’s smile had faded, twisting to match that of her mother’s, and the two of them had spent the rest of the evening quietly crying into their tea.

            Three details revolving around what Sherlock had overheard that evening had bothered him to no end. First of all, how could River, a woman who appeared as though she either matched or exceeded Amelia in age, have possibly been Amelia’s daughter? Second of all, if indeed her birthdate was listed correctly on her certificate, then Amelia Pond should have been twenty-three years old, and yet she had informed River that she had recently turned thirty-one. Third, and possibly most troubling of all…for the very first time in his life, Sherlock had failed to understand the meaning behind their conversation. The phrases “two thousand years ago” and “displaced in time” had him reeling in confusion and self-doubt.

            Obsessed with the mystery of Amelia’s age contrasting with her appearance and personal records, wondering if this “Doctor” character (perhaps an incredibly efficient plastic surgeon and identity forging specialist?) had anything to do with it, Sherlock dove deeper into her history, into her adolescence and childhood. He pilfered her psychiatry records, discovered that “the Doctor” was, according to her physicians, a figment of Amelia’s imagination, an imaginary friend, a faerie tale man from another world who apparently travelled through time and space in a blue police box. It was nonsensical, illogical, and completely ridiculous…and yet…somehow, it all made sense.

            Desperately trying to convince himself that he hadn’t gone rogue from investigative withdrawal, Sherlock began researching the theoretical and conspiratorial possibilities surrounding time travel and the existence of aliens, stringing together mad, impossible theories from subtle hints and rumors, worked his way into top-security files from private institutions called UNIT and Torchwood, and discovered the truth: the Doctor was real, and Amelia Pond was a time traveller.

            Enthralled and enamored, he found himself desperate to speak with her, to hear the truth of what he had discovered straight from her lips. He constantly considering calling her, and wondered if that would indeed be a wise move, seeing as Sherlock was supposed to be dead. He wondered if Amelia had ever been curious about _him_ in return, if she had researched his past as he had done with her, and if she had discovered the report of his suicide. And then, assuming Amelia knew that he had allegedly died, would she have cared?

            Would Amelia even remember who he was, or was Sherlock Holmes merely a blip in her timeline compared to the brilliant, captivating phenomena she had undoubtedly witnessed travelling the realms of time and space that would likely outshine the corrupted monotony of humanity, himself included. It took Sherlock several weeks before he arrived at a final decision. Six months into his afterlife, Sherlock sent Amelia Pond a text message with a set of coordinates marking the place where they had first met, and a signature that simply read _SH_.

 

* * *

 

            Everyone thinks that Amelia Pond has gone mad. Ever since the sudden, tragic death of her husband, Rory Williams, the night he’d flown abroad to America for a seminar and his plane had crashed into the ocean, she hadn’t spoken a word to anyone about him. After all, if she had told them the truth, no one would have believed her. In reality, Amelia Pond and Rory Williams had run away with the Doctor on their wedding night to explore the universe, to travel through time and space.

            Amelia craved adventure, adored the sensation of adrenaline swimming through her veins, heart thundering in her chest at the possibility of danger and mayhem. She knew that it couldn’t last, she knew that her days were numbered, but she hadn’t ever expected that it would end the way that it had. One time, one fateful adventure, the Doctor, Amelia, and Rory had been surrounded by a swarm of Weeping Angels, and Rory had been taken from her. Displaced in time, the possibilities of where he could have been sent endless.

            She had found Rory in history books. _The Lone Centurion_ , he’d been called. Brave and courageous and boundlessly loyal, a hero killed in battle. Immediately after he had been taken, Amelia had wanted to find Rory, would have spent the rest of her life searching for him, would have rewritten time and torn apart the universe to rescue him from his violent, battle-scarred fate as a Roman soldier…but the Doctor had told her that it was next to impossible, that the gap in his history was far too wide, that events recorded during that time period were vague and unreliable, and that they would likely never find him.

           After that night, Amelia had demanded that the Doctor take her home, for good this time. She had told him that she was through with faerie tales, and that she had no desire to see him ever again, told him that she couldn’t stand to be be around him anymore, that his continued involvement in her life would only serve to remind her of Rory, and of the fact that she had lost him. If he couldn’t bring Rory back to her, if he couldn’t even _try_ , then what was the point of him? If he couldn’t understand how much she loved Rory, how much she desperately needed to find him, had he ever truly known her, or cared for her at all?

            She knew that it was selfish, knew that it was wrong of her to assume, but Amelia couldn’t help placing the weight of Rory’s death on the Doctor’s shoulders, couldn’t help but wonder if Rory would become yet another death in the Doctor’s timeline, another notch in the Doctor’s guilt-ridden conscience, the blood of another companion, forever staining the Doctor’s hands. From time to time, she wondered if she would ever be able to forgive him for everything that he had done, everything that he had taken away from her.

            Three months following her return home, after she had gotten well used to the tedium of time passing in the right order, she had decided to pack up and move to London, leaving her history with Rory and the Doctor behind her in Leadworth. It’s been nine months since Amy left the TARDIS, and her life still doesn’t make any sense. One evening, Amelia Pond nearly faints in the middle of a crosswalk when she receives a text message from Sherlock Holmes. Of course, she’d already had his number, but she hadn’t been expecting to hear from a dead man.

            From the moment she’d moved to London, she’d heard rumors about the Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, the odd, arrogant genius of a man with a beautiful mind and a cold, calculating disposition. (Amelia had, of course, actively ignored the endless list of parallels linking Sherlock Holmes and the Doctor.) Desperate for a distraction, she’d immersed herself in research, followed most of his cases, followed his blog, _The Science of Deduction_ , and his colleague, Dr. John Watson’s blog, investigated the James Moriarty scandal, and cried the night she’d discovered that Sherlock had committed suicide.

            She’d often considered contacting John Watson, sought comfort in their coincidental connection to creatures with brilliant minds and a proclivity for danger and turmoil, in a man who had suffered a loss comparative to her own, but thought better of it. After all, she was probably just a blip in Sherlock’s timeline, an amusing anecdote at best. A story that probably hadn’t even made an impact on Sherlock’s vast, expansive memory, one that probably hadn’t been enthralling enough to share with anyone, in comparison to Sherlock’s endless collection of riveting detective tales.

            It’s been eleven years since she first met Sherlock Holmes, (three years for him, of course,) and Amelia still hasn’t forgotten that kiss on New Year’s Eve, especially since it had technically happened twice. The first time it had happened, they had been living in the original universe, and Amelia had been alone and her life hadn’t made any sense. The second time around, after the universe had been rebooted, three weeks before Rory had admitted that he was in love with her, she’d been out with Mels (who had taken off with some bloke in a navy blue pea coat who called himself “Captain Jack,”) leaving her all on her own.

            She remembers that night happening in two completely different ways, remembers that, both times, in both universes, they had shared the same conversation and the same cigarettes. In both realities, Amelia had kissed Sherlock Holmes at midnight. It’s oddly unsettling, and just a tiny bit terrifying, and Amelia finds herself wondering if certain events are simply meant to happen. If certain events are grounded and final. If the paths of two seemingly different people are meant to collide.

            If, despite a massive shift in reality, fractures in time that have the power to erase entire planets and galaxies from existence, and a second chance at the creation of the universe, forever changing the way history was lived and recorded, certain events simply _cannot_ be rewritten. Amelia finds a quiet café, orders her favorite tea, and spends the rest of the afternoon pondering his text message. For the first time in nine months, Amelia smiles.

 

* * *

 

            Amelia Pond walks across the silent plaza at twenty-seven minutes to midnight, the flames of her hair licking the night sky as the wind swirls a delicate flurry of snow around her. She finds Sherlock instantly, casually leaning against the brick building of a café, a perfect replica of the way he’d looked on the night when she’d first met him. This time, instead of hiding behind a façade of indifference, he immediately locks eyes with her, reaches into the pocket of his black pea coat, and, without saying a word, offers her a cigarette.

            Without even needing to be asked, he lights it for her, his lips twisting into a curious smile as he studies this guilt and sorrow-plagued version of the woman he’d met three years prior. Of course, for her, it had been eleven years since they had last spoken. The life of a time traveller…it’s difficult to follow, but Sherlock promises himself that he will try his damnedest to keep up with her. Together, the two of them stand there in a comfortable silence, shrouded in a cloud of cigarette smoke, mirroring that night on New Year’s Eve, content in one another’s company, and enamored by the complicated catastrophes of each other’s history.


End file.
